


When My Wrath Fades, Your Memory Remains

by ProphetessMinty



Series: The Dawning 2020 [4]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Day 4: Eye for an Eye, Destcember 2020, Destiny | Forsaken, Do Overs, F/M, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Lore Tab | "Honored", Moving On, Petra coulda had a boo, Regret, The Dawning (Destiny)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28644903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProphetessMinty/pseuds/ProphetessMinty
Summary: Even seasons later, Petra is full of regret about the failures of the Prison of Elders. Maybe revenge wasn't such a good thing after all. There was loss and grief on all sides. No one won that day. Though she's slowly working to cope with her choices, The Guardian stops by to check in on her.
Relationships: Cayde-6 & Amanda Holliday
Series: The Dawning 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076669
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	When My Wrath Fades, Your Memory Remains

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Destiny or any part of the franchise; all rights and ownership belong to Bungie.
> 
> A/N: This story is my headcannon.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ~ProphetessMinty

**When My Wrath Fades, Your Memory Remains**

* * *

Petra stood on the cliff in the shadow of the stone gazebo like a paladin of the dusk, the last of daylight scarcely tarring above the far-off horizon. A gentle breeze gusted past her like crestfallen sighs, coming and going like the thoughts that plagued her. Sangria strands of hair rustled and lifted as if they were ribbons dancing in the currents. Every so often the fur of her cowl would tickle her cheeks, kissing her with phantom touches. Sweet flora hung on the humid air, a welcome perfume, though it did little to soothe her stomach which twisted into terrible knots of grief.

Closing her electric blue eye, Petra could make out the echo of gunfire from seasons past. She remembered the passion of anger like forest fire though she could no longer feel the rage swelling deep inside in her chest. Just as the guilt crept in as filthy as jilted love, tears began to prick her eye, threatening to break forth. Yet, she was stubborn against it as she gritted her teeth.

The Queen’s Wrath never cried.

Nor would she start now.

As she worked to summon a resolve she did not have, an old memory whispered into her ear provoking her into burning sorrow.

_“Your Grace, we here present to you Petra Venj, your loyal servant, wherefore all you who come this day to witness her homage and service. Do you acknowledge her?” Uldren and Illyn pronounce in unison._

Petra gulped.

_“I do,” says the Queen, her voice like finely woven silk._

Petra remembered the way she shook as if she were a newly drafted Corsair on the day she was instated as “Queen’s Wrath”. Her mouth had gone dry like scorched ground, her chest tight as it heaved in time with her palpitating heart. Though Uldren and Illyn harmonized their part of the oath for all to hear, Petra only heard the Prince’s. A pang of regret sucker punched her in the gut in a daring feat of revenge. Suddenly the breath she held was whisked away from her lungs.

_“Petra Venj! Are you willing to take the oath?” they—he—asked._

_“I am willing,” she struggled to say, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth._

_“Will you solemnly promise and swear to protect our people, our holdings, our territories, and our immaterial interests?” Illyn and the Prince asked._

_“I solemnly promise so to do,” Petra answered, the truth lifting her spirit into freefall._

_“Will you to your power cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your judgements?” they—he—asked._

_“I will,” she vowed._

Mercy.

What did she know of mercy?

Petra rubbed at her eye as if a speck of dust had landed there, or so she reasoned within herself. With an exasperated sigh, she turned away from her valley-wide view and went in search of a place to sit. Her cloak undulated behind her, dragging in the subtle wind as her boots tapped against the stone steps. Just as she reached the bottom, Petra noticed the shadow of a Wraith leaning against one of the marble pillars underneath the gazebo’s stone archway.

“I was not expecting you,” she murmured, though unsurprised by her guest.

Only the delicate whistle of wind graced her ears in reply as she took resting purchase upon a cold, metal cache. A slight shiver ricocheted throughout her limbs, leaving her jittery and chilled. Wrapping her arms around herself, she leaned forward as if in a casual hunch. Letting her head fall forward, she sighed.

“Any news about our little…rumor?” Petra asked, her voice betraying her with a quiver.

Silence.

“Do you plan to stand there and mock me?” she asked, turning to stare at him.

“Since when have I ever willingly provoked the Queen’s Wrath?” he asked, his voice as soft as a dove’s reply.

Petra could not help but smile slightly as it was fitting of the Wraith’s meekly character. He was ever tender with her though he could be a means of her untimely downfall. A part of her appreciated his gentleness while another part so detested it. His mild spirit was like a balm of peace, yet it was also salt to a festering wound. How much she wished to be of his temperance but could never reach it while she was stuck in the aftermath of vengeful conquest.

Perhaps, it was the jealousy talking.

Or quite possibly, it was dawning realization on Petra’s part that she was not quite where she wanted to be in life. Despite all her vast and heroic accomplishments in the name of her Queen—Mara Sov—Petra was still that broken woman resigned to stately service. Was she simply here to distract herself from life and social desires for the sake of duty?

It _is_ the very reason she never pursued personal matters with a certain daring ranger with an ace of spades for a calling card.

Petra bit her lip, waking up and out of her downward, spiraling reverie.

Now was not the time for this.

She had company.

“Very well,” she answered with a nod. “You have made your point. I stay my hand.”

The Wraith pushed off the stone pillar, walked over, and took to leaning against the supply cache she sat on. He opened his hand, palm up, as a royal blue pouch with embroidered snowflakes appeared. Extending a hand forward, he took her hand into his, and placed the bag in her care before letting go.

“What is this?” she asked, a cheeky smile splaying across her lips. Daring herself with witticism, she asked, “Are you bribing me or wooing me? I must insist you refrain yourself, Guardian.” The Wraith shook his head, his helmet obscuring his current expression, though Petra could guess embarrassment by the way he held his shoulders. Chuckling dryly, she let him off the hook. “Do not fret. You have always had good taste. Your secret is safe with me.”

“I can neither confirm, nor deny your current accusations,” the Wraith teased sardonically. Backing away to resume his lean against his momentarily claimed gazebo pillar, he said, “Merry Dawning from Eva Levante, Queen’s Wrath.”

“No wrath today, only Petra,” she sighed, resting her chin on her fist.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked casually.

“Perhaps one day,” she mused aloud, “but not today.”

The air between them quickly went stale despite the cool evening breeze. Though they stayed this way for a long time after, Petra greatly appreciated his reserved support. It was free, yet strong; not suffocating, but very much near in unspoken meaning. As Petra arrived at this conclusion, she began to hear The Strand’s nocturnal denizens as they sung their songs. Some were loud caws while others were soft, melodic chirps.

“I still think about that day,” the Guardian murmured. “I can still hear the gunfire.”

Petra closed her eye, picturing the flash…the bark…the death.

The Prince.

“For the longest time, it haunted me,” he sighed. “I would still love a do over, but it is impractical to wish for such things. Instead, I realized a bit of wisdom for myself and it is this: ‘do not let the sun go down on your wrath’. An ‘eye for an eye’, will eventually make you go blind, leading you down an even darker path than before. We cannot change the past, but we can change how it affects our future.”

Petra chuckled, slightly amused, “Are you heckling me, Guardian?”

“What can I say,” he shrugged, “I am told I have great taste.”

For the first time all day, she laughed from her belly. “You humans are positively inflammatory. Yet, it is your courage I admire.”

“We try,” he chuckled, shoving off the pillar before summoning his ghostly companion into the palm of his hand.

“Wait, Guardian—Roman,” Petra commanded, jumping to her feet. “Before you go, could you deliver something for me?”

Roman, the Wraith, paused but nodded consent.

Petra pulled out the knife from her hip holster and inspected it momentarily before feeling power surge into her hand. Allowing it to envelop the knife she watched it twirl in the space above before gripping hold of it. Handing it over toward the Guardian, Roman grabbed hold of it, careful not to nick her with the blade.

He laughed, “Really? Out of all the things ol’ Cayde said, you picked _this_ quote?”

She grinned, though emotionally pained, “It seemed fitting.”

“Who’s the lucky person to receive your blade?” Roman asked, thoughtfully.

“You know who,” she said, walking back toward the caches. Sitting down, Petra sighed, “We suffered much because of our actions, truly. Yet, they have suffered lonely days and countless nights. This is the least I could do.”

Roman nodded, “Very well.”

“Thank you,” Petra smiled small, “Merry Dawning.”

“Merry Dawning,” he nodded.

* * *

It was well past midnight, and a certain blonde Shipwright was the only one occupying the hangar. Not that she minded. The radio was on, playing some music with a hard and edgy rhythm. As she worked on salvaging some parts from the sparrow hanging above her, the bass vibrated through the floor and she felt at peace.

It was the first time in a long while that she did not accidentally drop her wrench or trip over her various projects. Her mind was mostly clear save for the stray thought that threatened to break her serenity. Several times, she sung under her breath, working to refocus herself when she felt she was slipping. The tactic was working until she finally got into the innards of the mechanism and realized that the vehicle may as well have been crushed like a drink can.

Everything about it was wrong. From the way it looked, to the fact that its exhaust port was shoved into the engine. Shaking her head, the Shipwright knew it was not the first time she saw something impossible like this. Yet, every time she took a gander at stupidly wrecked sparrows it made her a little more jaded inside. Rolling out from under the bike, the Shipwright came to her feet, and threw her red terrycloth to the floor.

“Come on, Amanda,” she growled to herself, “you’re a Holliday and Holliday’s don’t give up.”

“No, they don’t,” a voice called from across the practically empty hangar.

"By the Light of the Trav’ler, Guardian!” Amanda screeched like a banshee, practically jumping out of her skin. “Warn me next time!”

Roman laughed sheepishly, “My apologizes, Amanda.”

Holding a hand over her heart, the Shipwright chuckled, “No harm, no fowl. I was just spooked is all. I reckon’d I was alone.” As she said this, Amanda walked over to one of her tool chests and leaned against it. Doing so, she crossed her arms and legs. “To what, do I owe this pleasure?” she drawled, smiling.

The Wraith said nothing as he strode over to her and placed something heavy on the workbench with a _clunk_. Amanda eyed him skeptically for a moment, before her eyes flicked down to the table. Where his hand had once been, there was a long dagger that had been cleaned with care. Its blade was shiny enough to use as a mirror and it intrigued the Shipwright immediately.

“What’s this, Roman?” she asked, palming it quickly.

The flat of the blade glinted under her work stall’s blue-white LED lights, revealing a neatly etched engraving that read: _Do the thing!_ No sooner had she read the saying, Amanda’s emerald green eyes began to well with tears. Bursting out with a half-laugh, half-sob, the Shipwright dropped the knife and slapped her hands over her face. “I think I got some of that there synthetic oil in mah eye,” she cried.

Amanda quickly went to rubbing at her eyelashes, feeling pained and distressed as she went. Suddenly it all hit her like a ton of bricks, and she wept hard. No sooner had she done this, that an iron embrace surrounded her. Amanda could not have been more grateful for the emotional support. Thankfully, no one save for the Guardian was here to see her lose her cool and she was okay with that.

“I miss him,” she sniffled, inhaling sharply.

“I know,” he murmured. “Me too.”

“That idiot had to go out guns blazin’!” she both laughed and cried. “At least he went out doin’ what he loved…I guess.”

“Maybe,” Roman answered, before parting from her.

“Thanks,” Amanda whispered, wiping her eyes. “Where’d ya get my new, spiffy work knife from?” Laughing, she rubbed her nose with a knuckle. “It even came with a spade after that stupid phrase of his too.”

“A friend of a friend,” Roman said.

“Well, whoever it was made my day…but they also deserve a swift kick in the rear fer’ makin’ me cry,” she cheeked.

“Merry Dawning,” Roman smiled.

“Merry Dawning,” Amanda smiled. 


End file.
